


Let it snow

by WilwyWaylan



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, just some mindless fluff, what the world needs is fluffy fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:53:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21696505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WilwyWaylan/pseuds/WilwyWaylan
Summary: One should never go into bookshops without knocking first. Or ever.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	Let it snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Calimera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calimera/gifts).



If one were to push the door of that special bookshop in Soho this winter evening, one would be faced with a sign sternly advertising anyone daring enough that the shop was closed and no one would know when it would re-open, please go away for your book-related needs. If one, bold, daring or stupid enough to ignore that warning, were to push the door(1), one would be met first with darkness, and an overwhelming scent of old, dusty(2) books.

But not just dusty books. If one were to walk a little deeper in the maze formed by shelves and piles of books, one would soon notice that the smell of dust and old wood starts to be laced with something else, something sweeter and infinitly more delicious. Something that smelled suspiciously like hot cocoa, with maybe a hint of coffee, coming from a lit area at the back of the shop.

If one were to continue, tiptoeing as silently as possible, towards the lit area, one would, after several turns and at least one circle designated to keep all supernatural, celestial or occult creatures out - if one, as we said, wasn't a supernatural, celestial or occult creature, one would, then, reach a small open space, vaguely circular, that contains several things that, usually, don't belong in a book shop. One may of course argue for the couch and the table ; those are things that can be found in book shops, even those who don't go up in smoke and then don't. This may be true for run-of-the-mill furniture, but those are high-end, several-centuries-old, weathered by time but lovingly maintained. The couch is all red velvet and dark wood, very comfortable. The table is the same, the kind that's been polished and polished again. Strangely, there's two cups of tea resting on it, and a plate with a few crumbs, coming from what was probably a piece of cake. The lamp, with a shade made of colorful glass, is a rarer find, but not impossible. But the large fireplace, made of white marble, especially one where a fire is happily burning, with so many books around...

If one, braving the signs and the sheer hostility of the place, would come even nearer, one would notice the two persons sprawled on the couch. Well, one sprawled with a lazy abandon that still keeps snake-skin boots off the cushions, sunglassses strangely and firmly in place, gazing in the fire, or maybe napping, it's a bit hard to tell. Unmoving, anyway, head reasting on the other person's lap. The other person, who's currently engrossed in a book, fingers lazily playing with the first person's hair. Sometimes, they take sips from mugs full of chocolate and marshmallows, that seem to never get empty. A plaid, with an ugly tartan pattern, may drop from the couch's back and drape itself on one's legs, and be sent back a bit later. 

And then, the atmosphere would fully hit the one who would dare intrude on this moment. The low light of the flames, bathing everything in a golden glow. The silence, only broken by the soft noise of pages turned, and the crackling of the fire. Sometimes, a rustle that may remind one of feathers fluttering, or a few words muttered under one's breath. The person laying down, turning over, earning a comment from the other. Encompassiong all, the atmosphere, soft and intimate, warm, comfortable, comforting. And the feeling that time stopped for a moment, embrassing both of them in their own bubble of peace and light, echoing the silent fluttering of snow outside.

One may then retreat silently, discreetly, leaving the two beings, huddled together, to this moment that belongs only to them, taking care of not slamming the door to not disturb them. And one, who has been the lucky witness of this moment, may leave with a little more bounce in their step, and a little more love in their mind. 

1 Because let's face it, stranger things had happened in or around that bookshop. Like the fact that it went up in flames one night and was back with a vengeance the next day, without explanation. 

2 Not that the books were dusty, of course. Aziraphale made sure of that. But he had discovered that the dustier it smelled, the more patrons it drove away, and it pleased him a lot.


End file.
